


Heartbreak on the 101

by shibbi



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, end of season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibbi/pseuds/shibbi
Summary: Mickey is missing Ian post Season 3 finale and there's an interesting reunion.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Heartbreak on the 101

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Wow, ok. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve written anything? I can’t believe so many of you are still around. Thank you! Now I know I pretty much only wrote for the 1D fandom, and I am sure that’s what the majority – well let’s face it, all of you – are here for, but this is my general writing and fanfiction of all kinds blog, so hopefully some of you are fans of the show Shameless (US) and will enjoy this oneshot I whipped up today. There are MAJOR spoilers in here, so if you haven’t watched through season 3 and don’t want to be spoiled, I suggest not reading. 
> 
> The song Heartbreak on the 101 by Band of Horses kind of inspired me for this, as you can tell by the title, and I encourage you to listen to it. It’s a beautiful song. 
> 
> So I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Updated AN: I wrote this years ago after the season 3 finale i think. I thought gallavich fans might appreciate a simpler time and since this was just gathering dust on my old fanfic Tumblr I figured it should move here. It's been a slow move getting any of my work from there to here. It'll all move eventually. Anyway, enjoy.

He’d never admit it, that he’d cried over someone. He was sure Mandy had seen, but she wasn’t stupid enough to mention anything other than the initial biting comment of him being a pussy. As much as he loved her, he’d probably still take a swing. He wasn’t a pussy, no matter what she said, no matter how much his eyes stung from the salt rubbed against them every time he pressed the heels of his hands firmly against their lids. One of his idiot brothers had commented on how thin and pale he’d become, how red and puffy his eyes had been lately, but he’d assumed Mickey had just found a cheaper dealer and started up smoking more. And if he had, it had nothing to do with Gallagher’s leaving.

He tried not to spend too much time at home anymore. Svetlana wasn’t there too often, but his father tended to be, and that was worse. It’d been a few months since the wedding, and everything that had happened; a few months and nights spent wandering sleeplessly through the streets of the Southside. A few months of balancing on the edge of the el as the train streamed past, the air nearly pushing him from the tracks. A few months of scratchy eyes and throat and bloodied cuticles from where he’d chewed the skin clear off.

He’d nicked one of those small, portable tvs and kept it hidden in his room so none of his siblings would take it. He kept it tuned to that one station that always broadcasted news of foreign places and wars and towelheads terrorizing the country and all that shit. He’d never been too concerned with foreign affairs, but now he had a personal investment in this particular war. Not that he’d ever admit it.

He’d thought about enlisting himself. He was 18, no need to fake it like Gallagher, the bastard. He told himself it wasn’t that he wanted to be stationed with the firecrotch to make sure he was ok or anything, but he knew if something happened to the idiot, Mandy’d never forgive him. Not like it’s his fault the moron jumped at the opportunity to get himself killed. Not like he was thinking the same. Late nights balancing on the ledge of bridges and on the el tracks and in the middle of the highway, just typical Mick, he’d say. He was invincible, he’d say.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids until he saw fireworks. His feet dug into the gravel on the ground of the dugout, making deep grooves until the dark, damp earth was exposed to the cool breeze of late fall. Sometimes he wished he were different; most of the time, actually. He wished he were straight, mostly. He wished he actually didn’t give a shit. He wished he hadn’t started to get attached to one of the only people on the planet who had managed to make him cry. He wished he could have enjoyed it when his father forced him to have sex with the Russian whore. He wished he’d just die already so he didn’t have to live with the regret of his stupid mouth never saying what he meant it to. He wished he was more like the Gallaghers who always said what was on their mind and what they were feeling and wore their hearts on their sleeves because even though they came from Southside, they had somehow managed to be the least screwed up thing around.

He didn’t like himself. Never had, really. It was hard to like yourself when you were a Milkovich. Either you were too stupid, or too screwed up. Or both. He might not be as stupid as his older brothers, but he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box; he knew that. He was screwed up more than the rest of the Milkoviches, probably, so that kind of did him in. How could he like himself when he contradicted who he was raised to be? Not that who he was raised to be was a great person anyway, but it was a hell of a lot easier. He was pretty much fine until Gallagher forced himself into Mickey’s life. He was a good fuck at first, and it was nice that Mickey finally got to take it for once without worrying about being a bitch. Because God knew that there was no way Mickey was the bitch between the two of them when it’d all started. But he was starting to think he was turning out to be.

His phone vibrated against the pebbles beside him, sending out an eerie sound against the cement walls of the dugout and into the quiet air. He’d smashed the front screen a while back, so now it just lit up, and he couldn’t tell who it was, not that it mattered, not many people had his number. He picked it up without bothering to check.

“What do you want, fucker?”

“Wow, way to treat your baby sister, jackass.” Mandy’s voice crackled over the abused speaker.

“Fuck you. What do you want? I’m busy.” He rubbed the side of his face with one hand, scratching where the stubble of his beard was starting to grow in too long again.

“No you’re not. Get home now.” She didn’t bother to wait for his reply before hanging up. Etiquette was lost on the Milkoviches, not that he gave a shit.

He stayed a bit longer, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with ease, shaky hands shielding the flame from the wind. They hadn’t been steady in a few months. He blamed the two packs a day he was smoking and the extra blow he’d added into his routine.

When he finally stood, he had to steady himself on the cold, aluminum bench, lips pursed around the glowing cigarette, a beacon in the darkness of the Chicago night. It wasn’t too far of a walk back to the Milkovich house, ten minutes max. He made sure it took that long. Just because he was listening to his sister’s demands, didn’t mean he had to rush at it. He wasn’t ready to go back to the room he shared with his wife.

She wasn’t that terrible, she was ok actually. She’d come home from “work” late one night, reeking of cheap cologne and sweat – among other things – to find him sitting up on the bed, making his way steadily through a bowl all alone. That’d been one of the better nights. She’d pet his head and murmured some Russian shit before pulling him into the bathroom with her. She ran a bath and soaked while he sat on the floor, back against the cabinet and knees pulled up to his chest. He didn’t really remember what he’d talked to her about, most likely whatever had been on his mind; the same thing that usually is. All he remembered was her nodding and reassuring him that things would be ok, he’d see. That’d been kind of early on in the marriage, and while he knew now that she wasn’t pregnant – thankfully – he hadn’t gotten around to getting the divorce papers just yet. He was safer with her, and she wasn’t so bad. It’s not like there was anything better for him around anymore. That’d left on a bus to who knows where. Probably blown up by some roadside bomb planted by the towelheads in the shitty desert. Might as well stay with someone who didn’t give a shit that they didn’t fuck, who didn’t complain that he slept in a sleeping bag because he woke up gasping for air in a cold sweat if their skin touched while they were sleeping, whose presence seemed to satisfy his father enough to keep from shooting him dead. Things could be worse, that was the only thing that’d ever kept him going in Southside.

There were a few lights on inside, the main one in the living room and a small one in the kitchen, Mandy was probably the only one home. He liked it that way. She was one of the only people he could tolerate anymore. He took a final long, slow drag on his smoke and held the searing heat in his lungs before flicking the butt to the ground somewhere to his right. He let out a breath and watched the gray cloud circle in front of him. It rose above his head and dissipated, carried away on a breeze. He kind of wish he could do that.

He jogged up the few steps to his front door, pushing it open with his shoulder and kicking his shoes off. They hit the wall of the entryway, decorating it with another pair of mud scuffs to add to the rest from years of abuse.

“Hey assface! I’m back! What the fuck’s so goddamn impor–” He stopped in his tracks, mouth frozen in an ‘o’, as his shouted words echoed around him. The air suddenly felt stiff and muddy, sticking to his tongue and skin, plastering his dirty hair to his forehead. That last cigarette began to burn inside him again and his hair stood up on his arms. “Gallagher?”

Ian stood quickly, wiping his hands on his camo-pants, dirty and torn at the bottoms, opposite to their normal spick and span appearance the cadet had usually kept them in. His stupid hair had been shaven close to his head again – closer than usual – and his skin was darker. He had his tan shirt on, stuck tight against his chest and hugging his biceps as his arms stuck close to his sides. He gave a curt nod in greeting.

“Mickey.”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel, honestly. Four years, minimum. It hadn’t been four years. It couldn’t have been. A few months, that was all.

“What the fuck you doin’ back in Southside, sergent?” He spit the words robotically. “Thought you were going to go protect your country or some shit.”

Ian sucked a breath through his nose and sighed quickly, nostrils flaring, but eyes sad. He shook his head. “Dishonorable discharge.”

“They don’t like fags in the army?” He didn’t know why he said it. It hurt him, and he could tell it hurt Ian too. Maybe if he hurt him enough he’d finally leave for good and Mickey wouldn’t have to keep hurting every time he thought the bastard might come back. But Ian just should his head.

“Mick–”

“Fuck you.” Mickey jabbed a finger towards the younger boy, fishing his nearly empty carton of cigarettes and a light from the pocket of his hoodie. He tapped the end and slid a thin stick from the box. Ian watched and he raised it to his lips and struggled with his shaking hands to get a flame from the almost spent lighter. “Fuck!”

“Let me–” Ian approached him, hand out to take the light from him, but he jerked away.

“Fuck off, Gallagher. I don’t need your help.” The flame leapt to life, igniting the end of the cigarette swiftly and going out just as fast. He sucked in then blew the smoke into the tall bastard’s face. “What’re you doing in my house? Your family not let you in once they realized you stole Lip’s one chance outta here?”

“Jesus, Mickey!” Ian threw his hands up, turning around and rubbing them against his short, red hair. Turning back slightly, he extended a hand. “I wanted to see you, alright? I’m gone to war for months and you’re the first person I come to see and you treat me like shit. What the fuck?!”

“You come to see me this time? Not Mandy?”

Ian gave an exasperated sigh. “Christ–”

“What?” Mickey shrugged, cigarette balancing expertly between his chapped lips. “What? You want me to clap for joy and jump up and down at the hero’s return? You expect me to run up and kiss you? Beg you to let me suck your dick or something? I told you, I’m not a fucking bitch, Gallagher. Just because you ran away to play soldier for a while doesn’t mean I’ve changed.”

“You sure look like you have.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look half dead, Mick.”

Mickey grunted and took the smoke from his mouth, turning his head to spit. “Married man now.” He waggled his left hand in the air, the golden ring glinting off the yellow-y glow of the few bulbs that hadn’t blown yet. “They say it slowly kills ya.” He shrugged.

Ian’s face screwed up and he shook his head, eyes down. His voice was softer, but somehow more deadly when he spoke again. “You’re still with her, then?”

“Well yeah. What’d you expect? I’d divorce her as soon as we got hitched?”

Ian shrugged. “I just thought–”

“Fuck what you thought, Gallagher, because to me it seems like when you think it don’t do much but make you into an ass. I like her fine, not that it should make much difference to you.”

“I came back, Mickey! I went to war and I came to see you first! You think it wouldn’t make a difference?”

“What do you want me to say? Huh? Look around you, Gallagher. You think everything changed? You think life in Southside couldn’t possibly keep goin’ normal without you? Don’t flatter yourself. You left. That was on you. Don’t be mad because life went on without you.”

“You could’ve stopped me, Mickey. I gave you the chance and you just sat there. You didn’t say anything.”

Mickey snorted. “What? You want me to apologize for not stopping you? Not gonna happen.”

Ian rubbed his hands over his face, breathing out steadily. Neither of them said anything for a while, Ian looking at his feet and Mickey chewing the skin on the outside of his thumb. He tasted the iron tang of blood as he bit too far, but it didn’t bother him so bad. There was only a twinge of pain, and he was used to it. His fingernails had gotten the brunt of it when Ian had skipped town. No habit of coke or pot or cigs quite met up to the consistency of chewing his nails. He’d even tried heroin for a while, had the trackmarks, wished he didn’t. He’d stopped because the rush of pleasure he was supposed to feel was too close to the high he got when Ian fucked him up the ass. It was supposed to be addictive, but he guessed when you had something else so much better, so much more addictive, heroin paled in comparison.

Ian sank down to the couch, head in his hands. His short nails scratched at his buzzcut and he turned his face toward Mickey. He had on that smirk he’d gotten a few times. The one where he didn’t really feel the smile, where it was more hurt than anything. It suited his face more now; something that made Mickey shift from one foot to the other in discomfort. “I wanted you to stop me,” Ian whispered, a huff of dead laughter escaping his lungs.

Mickey shrugged. He switched to his pinky. Silence again.

“Did you hear me?”

He looked up, eyes meeting Ian’s before blinking away. “Yeah-” his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it. “Yeah, yeah I did. What do you want me to say, Gallagher? I told you I’m not gonna apologize. You didn’t have to go.”

The redhead nodded. “I know. I know, I know, I know! I just– I just kept wishing you’d come after me or something. If I didn’t look back I could pretend you were right behind me, trying to catch up.” He stood up and crossed over to where Mickey stood. The older boy’s eyebrows were knit together furiously as he closed his eyes and tilted his head down and to the side. He couldn’t do it. He was pissed. More pissed than he had been in a long time, but at the same time he felt sad, his limbs heavy like after he shot up. He shook his head again, taking a step back.

“I missed you, Mickey. And I’m sorry, ok?” Ian grabbed his neck, Mickey’s ear resting between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted his eyes to meet Ian’s and kind of wish he hadn’t. “I shouldn’t have left, and I shouldn’t have been an asshole to you, but you’re married and I just– I need you to just get it, ok? Just get that I can’t deal with sharing you all the time. I’m sorry for leaving you to deal with all this shit on your own and not doing something about it or– or at least staying around as a friend or whatever.”

He was sunk. He had been since they first fucked in his room, no matter how much he deluded himself, saying that it was all for the sex. He had been sunk since the moment that fucking redhead weaseled his way into Mickey’s life.

“Who said we were ever friends.” Mickey could punch himself. He didn’t know why he did it. Acted like a complete ass. Were they ever friends? Maybe? What was a friend anyway? Someone who had your back when things went bad? Someone to watch movies with? Someone who made stupid jokes that you laughed at because hell, they were funny. Someone you looked forward to seeing or would skip out on a deal just to share a cig or a few beers. Were they ever friends? Maybe. But it’s not like Mickey had much of a list to compare it to.

Ian’s hand loosened on his neck and his hand reached up to lock it in place. Fuck if it made him a bitch to enjoy this, the feeling of a warm hand steadying him, grounding him.

Mickey held back a snort and shrugged instead. He pulled his hand off of Ian’s and took one last drag from his cigarette. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.” He tried not to smile as he said it, and he was mostly successful, but he had a feeling the fucking Gallagher could see it anyway. He always could. Shoving the cigarette at the younger boy he grunted and turned away. “I’m going to bed. Get the hell outta my house, jackass.”

He could feel Ian’s smile without looking. Fucking Gallaghers.


End file.
